You’ve suffered too much, my dear.
Mrs. Littlewood.
No, the strange thing is that I haven’t suffered very much. Don’t you know how sometimes one has a horrid dream and knows one’s only dreaming all the time? [To the Vicar, with the same good temper, almost amused.] You’re surprised that I should go to the theatre. Why? To me, it’s no more unreal a spectacle than life. Life does seem to me just like a play now. I can’t take it very seriously. I feel strangely detached. I have no ill-feeling for my fellow-creatures, but you don’t seem very real to me or very important. Why shouldn’t I play bridge with you?
Vicar.
Oh, but, my dear, my dear, there’s one reality that you can never escape from. There’s God.
[A flash passes behind the old woman’s eyes. She rises and puts out her hand as though to ward off a blow.
Mrs. Littlewood.
I don’t think we’ll talk about God if you please. I prefer to play piquet.
[She sits down at the table at which the Colonel has already taken his seat.
Colonel Wharton.